To Whom It May Concern
by PsychopathOnADiet
Summary: Thatch had never quite gotten over the previous Second Division Commander's death. It had been too sudden, too much of a freak accident. When he went searching for answers, what he discovered was alarming. Trouble always finds Thatch, but this time he might not get out of it alive.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all! I had the thought the other day that there are very few stories that explain how the second division commander position became open before Ace had arrived on the Moby Dick. My creativity took over, and this was formed. It took forever though.**

 **General disclaimer on my profile.**

* * *

Thatch was not having a good day. Not at all.

He was supposed to be finding the group of Whitebeard fakers that were terrorizing a few islands in North Blue. They picked the wrong crew to mess with. No one actively provokes Oyaji, let alone pretends to be him. Apparently each of the commanders also had a doppelganger, and Thatch took personal offence to that. There was one hell of a beating headed their way, and Thatch was looking forward to it. There was only one problem.

The stupid imitators were nowhere to be found. No traces of them at any of the islands, no news of them in other towns, nothing - which made Thatch very frustrated.

He needed a way to get rid of some of the stress. _Not the guilt_ \- definitely not the guilt, he deserved that. The stress and frustration were eating at him, and beating the asses of a no-name rookie crew that thought they were good enough to challenge one of the big names of the oceans was the perfect way to take out some of his anger.

He'd been searching the North Blue for weeks, and the fact that he can't find even a rumor of his victims-to-be is just adding onto his frustration. So he decided to get more information, straight from the source.

When Thatch called Oyaji and explained the situation, he expected subtle anger and frustration, not laughter. He definitely did not expect for Marco to steal the snail and say, "If you can't find them, it's not a big deal. Just relax and take your time getting back." And the last thing he expected from them was for all of the commanders – even the normally vengeful ones like Fossa and Curiel who _hated_ rookies that pulled stunts like these – to agree wholeheartedly. Apparently it was a day for the unexpected. Assholes.

Thatch sighed and went down to the cabin. It was a little cramped – the ship he was using was only about 40 feet, being built to house about three people with minimum space – but it sheltered him from the elements and gave him a little privacy. Not that he needed it on a solo mission.

He took out his map of the North Blue and his compass. He only had enough food left for a week, and needed to get to an island before he ran out. Currently he was on course for Pares, a small town that he could stock up on before heading back to the Red Line and Reverse Mountain. Thatch made sure that he was still headed in the right direction, and then got around to cooking something to eat for dinner.

Right as he put a pot of water on to boil, he heard shouting from on deck, and felt the ship tilt with the addition of new weight. _'Now what? It's one thing after another today.'_

Thatch made sure his swords were at his side, and then climbed out of the cabin and on deck. He immediately saw a pirate ship that was much larger than his three-person sloop attached to his boat, and there were several unhygienic men standing on the bow. Sauntering up to them with a confident swagger, Thatch put on a smile fit for a predator and spoke.

"And here I was, looking for a way to take out my frustration. Hello, boys. How can I help you this fine day?"

The invading pirates looked a mixture of nervous, afraid, taken aback, and offended. Apparently they were not used to their victims smiling at them as they were raided; these idiots were in for a surprise. One of them managed to find some confidence and made the generic demand for everything on the ship. Thatch wasn't exactly listening to the specific words, but the message was the same every time it was given, so he knew what they wanted anyway.

"I'm going to be completely honest here, guys," he interrupted near the end of the threats and self-praise. "Today has not been the best day. I couldn't care less what you want, nor would I ever give it to you. I came all the way out here - to this pitifully weak sea - looking for pathetic impersonators to lay waste to, only to not find a trace of them. On top of that, my brothers have decided to be assholes today and won't help at all. I am frustrated. I am pissed. And yet, I am smiling." As he spoke, Thatch's eyes found each of the men on board his ship in turn, glaring at them, his gaze never wavering and a slightly sadistic smile on his face.

"You should be scared."

Immediately, Thatch leaped on the poor bastards who became victims one, two, and three of his wrath that day, his dual swords humming with speed as he wove a deadly dance that lasted all of two seconds around them. Usually he let his opponents attack first, so he could maybe add some new moves to his arsenal, but not today. Today was a slaughter day. He turned his sights onto the ship from whence they came, and jumped the 20 feet to its railing. He didn't bother speaking to this lot – he let loose on them, tearing long gashes into each and every one of them. His blades sparkled red and silver in the sunlight, and he quickly made his way throughout the entire ship, killing every pirate he came across.

The whole affair took roughly 6 minutes, 43 seconds. Not bad, since there were about 70 of them and he was definitely prolonging the "battle". He could have just destroyed the ship with one slice, but then he wouldn't have had the chance to get rid of some of that anger and frustration that was eating at him.

It actually worked, too, because as Thatch flicked the blood off of his swords, he felt lighter than he had since the incident with -

 _No. Don't think about that. Too much guilt. Focus._

Thatch started searching the ship for useful supplies and, hopefully, food. He hated when he was cutting so low on supplies. As he made his way to the kitchen, Thatch heard a low whimper. With a thread of Haki, he quickly found the source.

It was a kid. A twelve-year-old kid, who was hiding in a barrel buried in the back of a storage room.

A day for the unexpected, indeed.

* * *

Thatch may be a pirate, and he may slaughter any of the small-time rookies who annoy him, but he never hurts kids. Ever. He would even go out of his way to keep them from being harmed if there are any nearby while the Whitebeard Pirates do battle. When Thatch saw a twelve-year-old kid who looked as thin as a toothpick, he got angry. He wanted to resurrect the pirates he just killed so that he could do it all over again. No one should be starved like this kid was. Hell, he could see the outline of every rib through the thin shirt the brat was wearing.

The youth let out a small moan, which immediately set Thatch into his priorities. He quickly moved the various crates and boxes and barrels out of the way so he could reach the kid.

"Hey, brat, are you okay?" Thatch questioned, checking to see how responsive the child would be. He got a low mumble in reply – the kid was out of it, but at least he could recognize that he was being spoken to.

"I'm going to get you out of here. Hold on." Thatch carefully picked up the youth, carrying him bridal style and trying not to jostle him to much in case there were any injuries he couldn't see. He moved to the railing, and Thatch carefully lowered the boy into his own vessel before going down to join him. He carefully moved the kid into the cabin and laid him on the bed, making sure he wouldn't fall off, before going back up on deck.

Foregoing the possible supplies he could get from the ship, Thatch chose to get the kid as far away from the death-filled vessel as possible and directed his own sloop towards the distance. Once he was on course for a nearby island, he went back down to look over the youth and see if he was injured other than the obvious starvation.

After a brief yet thorough investigation, Thatch came up with two conclusions: the brat had no obvious or life-threatening injuries, and he probably had not eaten for weeks. For a well-built, crazy monster of an adult like Thatch, the effects of three weeks of starvation would hardly be noticeable other than the severe energy loss, but on a pubescent kid that was still in the process of gaining all of that muscle and tolerance he would have later in life, starvation was crazy dangerous. Good thing that Thatch was a chef – he had plenty of experience in treating starvation victims.

He turned to the stove and immediately prepared a simple, light broth – starting the kid off on solids would do more harm than good at this point. He managed to coax most of it into the half-conscious youth, along with a glass of water. Once he finished, he let the kid get some rest, choosing to wake him up in a few hours to get some more broth into him, and hopefully to get some information out of him.

The kid had obviously been a stowaway on the pirate ship. The crew hadn't known he was there, because if they had he would not have been under a stack of barrels – he would have been dead. Thatch's guess as to why the kid hadn't stolen food was because he didn't want to get caught, which begged more questions:

What was a twelve-year-old doing as a stowaway on a pirate ship? And why was he there for more than just a trip to the next island?

While pondering over this, Thatch realized he had a rather important issue to address. When he first encountered the pirate ship, he had roughly two weeks' worth of rations left before he was scraping the backs of the cupboards. That would have been fine – he was on course to reach an island within ten days. However, now there would be another person on board for the journey. He needed to split the rations between two people. That made it seven days' worth of food for two people.

A good part of this is the fact that the brat would be on broths for a few days, and maybe rice. That would extend the rations enough to get to the island. If Thatch needed to, he'd sacrifice a few meals. He refused to stop giving the kid the balanced and nutritious food necessary to recover from this. They'd be cutting it close, but they could make it, as long as nothing went wrong.

An uncomfortable moan and a crash brought Thatch out of his thoughts. The brat was awake, and trying to stand with little success.

"Oh, are you up now? That's good. I'll get you some more broth," Thatch said, moving to turn the stove on while watching the youth struggle to get back into the bunk. It was amusing how he wouldn't just let Thatch help him, but the distrust in his eyes and the kid's condition let Thatch know that there was a very valid reason for that. Eventually, lacking any energy whatsoever, the brat admitted defeat and let Thatch move him back into the bunk.

"Where am I? And who are you?" the kid questioned, still looking at Thatch like he was going to leap at him with one of the kitchen knives he could see at any second.

"It's rude to ask someone else's name before introducing yourself first, you know," Thatch replied with ease while heating up the broth.

"… Naoto."

"Hello there, Naoto. My name is Thatch. I found you on a pirate ship almost dead from starvation, so I nabbed you. We're on my boat right now." Thatch spoke jovially, keeping his tone light so as to not scare the kid. He didn't want to have to deal with that on top of all his other accumulating problems.

"You kidnapped me?" The brat's voice sounded incredulous for some reason.

"Well, it's not really a kidnapping. I'm not forcing you to stay here, and I don't want anything in exchange for your return." Thatch kept speaking as he filled a bowl with the now-warm broth and held it out for the kid. "It's more of a rescue where I strongly suggest you stay until you aren't in line for a wooden shirt. Are you going to take this?"

The brat – _Naoto_ , Thatch had to remind himself, _he has a name now_ – snapped out of his amazed and slightly weirded-out stare to take the bowl. He ate it slowly at first, until it finally registered how good it tasted; then he just set the spoon aside and drank the broth straight from the bowl.

"Go slowly, kid. There's plenty left," Thatch said with a laugh. He watched as the kid proceeded to gulp down the water provided as well, only at a more sedate pace. He waited until Naoto had finished and relaxed a bit, then asked his question as he took up the dishes and began to wash them.

"So, Naoto," he began, "why were you stowing away on a pirate ship?"

The brat froze. Oops.

* * *

Once the awkward silences and tense moments were over, Thatch offered to take the kid home. While Naoto accepted, he seemed rather reluctant about it. Thatch didn't put anything to it yet, not without more evidence.

They quickly found out that Naoto's home island was the same one Thatch was originally heading towards when he ran into the pirate ship. Once they had a destination set, Thatch went up on deck to correct the course – he had been drifting aimlessly for a while now and that was never a good thing.

While up on deck, Thatch noticed the sky was becoming clouded, and the air smelled like it was going to rain later. A storm was coming. As North Blue storms rarely compared to those of Paradise, let alone the New World, Thatch wasn't worried, but it was best to warn his passenger.

He went back into the cabin, and, upon noticing that the brat was sleeping, decided that he might as well get some sleep while he could - even a small storm took effort to navigate through properly.

Thatch woke up to water on his face, which wasn't a good sign as he was inside the boat. He was instantly alert, and quickly assessed the situation. It wasn't good.

There was an inch of water on the floor, which meant there was a place somewhere that the water was coming in through - he hoped they hadn't sprung a leak.

Looking outside, he could see that the storm was much worse than he had predicted. The sails were being tossed everywhere, and the steering wheel spinning aimlessly as the turbulent waves and currents tossed the ship about.

Naoto was knocked out, which would normally be a good thing as any kid sailing in a storm for the first time would be scared shitless, except it was a crate of supplies stored on a shelf that knocked him out, not his own loss of energy. There was an injury on the kid's head, and it was bleeding. Thatch needed to fix that fast.

Lastly, all the supplies that were necessary for sailing solo - kitchen knives, compass, food, clothes, buckets, oars, etc. - were being tossed around in the tiny cabin.

 _Okay, priorities. Leaks first._

Thatch figured out rather quickly that the water was coming in through the portholes he had left open in good weather - the waves were splashing in through them. He closed the portholes, and the door that led from the cabin to the deck. _That's one problem taken care of._

Next was Naoto. The kid was bleeding all over the bunk he was laying on. Thatch grabbed the first aid kit, giving thanks that it was still dry, and set about bandaging up his passenger. It was a rough job, but it would work until the storm passed. Once he managed to get his head wrapped up in a way that would staunch the bleeding, he moved on to the next issue.

Thatch set about securing everything that was loose and dangerous or too important to lose. The oars got tied down, the navigation instruments stored away, knife racks put into cabinets, and all the medicine shelves and cabinets tied shut. The non-necessaries could stay in the water for now.

Thatch then set about saving as much of the food as possible. Everything that was dry was tied to something, everything that was okay with a little seawater salvaged. He could take inventory later.

After making the cabin as safe as possible and saving the important supplies, Thatch went back on deck to get a handle on the rigging. It was a long, long time before the storm passed and he had to fight it every second. Eventually, though, everything calmed down enough for Thatch to assess the true damage.

Most of the equipment he needed to run the ship was still in decent shape. The Den Den Mushi was dead - dried out from the salt in the seawater - and the compass was broken, but he could still navigate well enough using the sextant he had stored away. The food however…

Before, they barely had enough food to make it to the island before the storm. Now, however, Thatch had no idea where they were; he had to wait until there were clear skies to find out. On top of that, the water in the cabin washed almost all of the loose rice out to sea. Which was very bad, as most of their rations were rice. They now had enough food for two grown adults for two days, with normal meals. With one starving kid and one adult, maybe three. With the food rationed, maybe five. Probably not.

Thatch didn't know how long it would take to get to the nearest island, nor did he know when the next clear day would be so he could use his sextant to figure out their position. It was plain obvious - they didn't have enough food to last until the next island.

"Looks like I'll be going without meals from now on," Thatch sighed. He may have been unhappy about it, but that's because he made a rookie mistake: he underestimated the ocean. He would make sure the brat got all the food he needed. The fact that he didn't need to eat a lot yet meant that he could spread the food out longer for Naoto. Fortune knows the kid will need it.

* * *

"It's not as bad as it seems. Honestly." At least, that's what Thatch was telling Naoto.

"There's no food."

"There's enough food to make it there. I checked this morning when the skies cleared - we're only about two weeks away. Your island is still the closest one, it's just a lot farther out now."

Naoto was not impressed. Not at all. For a kid who didn't have many muscles or energy to move, he was incredibly expressive in body language.

"Hey, we'll be fine. Don't worry about it," Thatch tried to placate the suddenly cynical youth. He didn't think it was working, though.

Naoto sat up a little more and gave Thatch a glare. "From what I have observed, you originally had only enough food to last a week. Now you tell me that most of it is gone because _someone_ slept through the first two hours of a storm and it got swept out by seawater. How is that, in any way, _fine_?"

 _Where did this suddenly come from?_ Before the storm hit, the brat was super timid and wary. All of a sudden, he's acting like Tyde did whenever Thatch had a major screw-up.

 _Shit. Don't think of him. Too much guilt._

"Are you always like this?" Thatch questioned the kid.

"Like what?"

"Stupidly paranoid until something happens, and then overly critical afterwards? I mean, I _am_ the one who got you off that boat in the first place. And in my defense, you were sleeping as well."

"I'm so sorry that your stuff knocked me out when you weren't paying attention. You're right, I could have totally gotten over that in two minutes."

 _Wow. This kid is almost as bad as Marco. That's… kind of impressive._ Thatch had a feeling that this would be a long trip.

* * *

They had been travelling for about four days now. Naoto hadn't run out of food yet - he was still eating small portions. Thatch was making them slightly smaller than they should have been, but he'd rather ration the brat's food as much as he could and keep him fed than have him starve later. Thatch himself had yet to feel the drain on his energy that going without food would bring, but he expected it to kick in by the end of the week.

While travelling in _Hysteria_ , there wasn't much to do. As soon as Thatch set the sails, he just had to make sure they were going in the same direction a couple times every hour. Naturally, this resulted in the super social Whitebeard commander trying to strike up a conversation with Naoto.

Key word being trying.

The brat spoke, yes, but only to criticize Thatch when he was doing something that was obviously stupid. He didn't ask questions, he didn't speak about himself, and he did not want to make small talk. Every time Thatch asked him about his family, his home, or even the island he was from, the kid clammed up instantly. Thatch could tell the kid was hesitant about returning there, but eventually he stopped asking - it wasn't his place to pry.

Despite the lack of conversation, Thatch learned a lot about his charge. Naoto did not understand card games at all, but he enjoyed reading - specifically books about shipbuilding. Too bad Thatch hadn't watched any of his shipwright brothers in action - that would have been a great skill to have right now. Not to mention a conversation starter. This kid hated talking and loved silence.

Thatch hated the silence. Ever since the Incident, he used conversation as a way to distract himself from the memories of his brother. Now, when he can't strike up a conversation with the only other person on a boat, he is forced into his emotional mess of a mind. He wants to remember Tyde with his sarcasm and his stupid self-sacrificing habits and his morbid sense of humor, not as he was when Thatch last saw him. Not with that dead expression on his face.

 _Thatch froze as he found Tyde amongst the sudden panic. That was Tyde, but those weren't his eyes - they were too empty. And that wasn't his face - there was a look of betrayal on it, and it was aimed right at him. Those empty, hurt eyes were looking at him, and all Thatch could think was "He blames me. It's my -"_

"Hey, have you had anything to eat?"

The question came out of nowhere, jerking Thatch out of his thoughts with a feeling of regret and relief. He turned around, looking at the only other person there. "What?"

"You've been making all of my meals, but I haven't seen you eat in a while, and there's not a lot of space here to hide," Naoto asked. "So, have you eaten?"

Still disoriented, it took Thatch a minute to understand that first, the kid was _actually_ talking to him, and second, that he had figured out that he wasn't eating any of the food.

"Why do you want to know?" questioned the commander.

"Just answer."

Thatch paused, debating about what he should tell the recovering twelve-year-old and how he would react if he told the truth. _Ah, screw it._

Meeting the skinny kid's eyes, the fourth division commander told him clearly, "I haven't eaten anything since the storm."

For a minute, all Naoto did was stare. Thatch didn't break eye contact, and neither did the kid. The silence was uncomfortable this time, and Thatch didn't know how the brat would react to this.

"Are you an idiot?"

"Excuse me?" Thatch was incredulous - of all the ways Naoto could have reacted, he did not put this down as one of them.

"Why, in the name of all things good in this world, would you think it okay to go without food?" Naoto's expression was a reprimanding one, which would have looked hilarious if not for his uncanny resemblance to Tyde at the moment.

Thatch quickly got over the feeling. He was gone, that was it. He had to deal with a skinny twelve-year-old who thought he could tell Thatch what to do right now.

"I don't see why you should complain. It's not like it affects you," Thatch responded airily.

"It does affect me, because I feel like I'm stealing all the food from you." Oh, the kid was serious about this. Thatch set his face into a stern expression - it wasn't Naoto's fault, no matter what he thought.

"First of all, stop that. Unless you are actively taking the remaining food from storage, you are not stealing the food. I am giving it to you for you to eat. Secondly, you have already been starved. I can still see your ribs, despite the meals that I have been giving you to recover. I am not about to let you suffer through that again as long as I can help it, and if that means I am going without food for two weeks, then so be it. You can take that attitude and stuff it."

Naoto was frozen with a stunned expression on his face. "Why would you do something like that for me? You barely know me!"

"So?"

" _So?!_ " Oh, now Naoto was angry. Thatch had a feeling of déjà vu. This was getting creepy. "That's it, you're going to eat from now on."

"What makes you think you can tell me what to do on my own ship? I rescued you and now I'm helping you recover. If you can't take it upon yourself to be grateful, too bad. You don't have to like it." Thatch was not dealing with this attitude. This sacrifice-hating attitude that was so eerily familiar would not be tolerated, not if it meant that someone would starve under his care. "I am a chef, brat, and it is my job to keep those around me fed. I can deal with the energy loss a lot better than you can, and I'm the one who won't be in danger of dying if I go without food for another week and a half. So, stop complaining. If you don't like it, get off the ship."

Naoto glared at him. Thatch knew he wouldn't get off the ship - if the kid was attached enough to Thatch to rebuke him for this, then he wouldn't leave. Not to mention there was nowhere for him to actually _go_ , water-locked as they were. Naoto knew this too, and from the look he was getting, he didn't like the situation. Not one bit. Ah, well, his opinion doesn't matter at all.

It was weird, though, how this kid reacted. It was just like him - just like Tyde.

* * *

 _The confrontation was an easy one, despite the overwhelming number of attackers. They needed two divisions just to make up for the numbers, but it wasn't so bad that they needed to call one of the other ships in for backup. How did they get enough people to outnumber the_ Moby Dick _? They should have at least heard of these guys before - Oyaji liked to keep an eye on the competition._

 _Thatch and Tyde were leading their respective divisions - fourth and second - in battle, while Jozu and his men were on fishing duty and Marco's division kept the_ Moby Dick _running. It wasn't a hard battle, just tedious - there were_ so many _of them. Tyde was beside him, standing near the back - out of the fight, but ready to interfere if need be. Thatch's attention was caught by a volley of bullets headed their way. He immediately stepped in front of Tyde, who was busy with someone from his division and not paying attention. He blocked all of them except one, and it got him in the right arm. Not too bad of a wound, but enough to set Tyde on him one he saw the blood._

" _Thatch, you idiot! There is absolutely no reason to take a bullet for me! NO, IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT I WASN'T PAYING ATTENTION! STOP BEING SO SELF-SACRIFICIAL, DAMMIT!"_

* * *

Tyde always hated it when others became overly helpful. His reactions were hilarious, but there were a few times that the victims of Tyde's anger deserved it. He chuckled unconsciously at the good memory - it was a nice change from the grim ones that had been haunting him for the last few weeks.

"What?"

Thatch turned his attention to Naoto, who was still sulking. "What?"

"You were laughing at me."

"I was not. I was just… remembering."

Naoto suddenly took on a look of curiosity. "Remembering what?"

Thatch's eyes grew sad, as he answered, "My brother. You act just like he did."

"Ah." Naoto paused for a moment, obviously debating on whether it would be okay to continue. Thatch wouldn't mind talking to this kid about Tyde - there was something different about talking of your problems and troubles with a stranger rather than with your family. You tended to be more open about it, and the other person didn't coddle you.

Eventually Naoto asked his question. "What is he like?"

Thatch sighed. "He was sarcasm incarnate. Everything you say, he had some snarky comeback to. Still don't know how he came up with all of those." Thatch chuckled. "He was stubborn, too - never backed out of any kind of fight, whether by words or by swords. And he hated when others stepped in to save his sorry butt. Got pissed about it like you wouldn't - well, you probably could believe it. You're the same way."

Naoto was listening intently, but looked uncomfortable. "...Was?" he questioned. Thatch was aware that the kid already knew the answer, but he felt compelled to ask anyway. The guilt came flooding back, reminding Thatch of his role in his brother's death.

"...Yeah. He's gone now."

Something must have shown on his face, because Naoto went from nervous and sympathetic to rebuking once more.

"Stop that. It wasn't your fault." Was this kid psychic or something? Because there was no way he knew that was what he was thinking. Thatch had observed several actors, so he could hide his true emotions almost professionally. Wait, it doesn't matter. The kid is wrong.

"Yes, it is. It's my fault."

"Did you actively try to kill him, or purposefully assist the one who did?" Naoto was very stern-looking now. It was a different kind of stern from the earlier food argument, too - this one was scary.

"No, but -"

"Then it is not your fault. Not doing anything to help does not mean you caused it to happen. Unless you were the cause of his death, direct or indirect, you are not guilty of killing him. So stop thinking that way."

Thatch was astounded. He didn't think of it that way. It didn't take away the guilt - oh, not by a long shot - but it did lessen the burden. He couldn't help but think of how well Naoto would fit in on the _Moby Dick_.

"Kid, you're a lot like my brothers," Thatch smiled at the brat. He liked him.

* * *

"Are you a pirate?"

 _Well, shit._

They were two days out from Pares, where Naoto was from. The kid got more restless the closer they were to the island, but he wasn't offering a reason as to why and he wasn't asking to go somewhere else, so Thatch left it alone. Other than that, he'd opened up a lot more. Conversations were common, although Thatch suspected it may have had something to do with the lack of new reading material.

Thatch was feeling the energy loss now, and he could tell that he had lost some weight as well. Not a significant amount - his overly-athletic constitution was very good at conserving energy, so it wasn't a problem, and he would gain the weight back right away as soon as he got some food in him. Naoto was looking much better now that he'd had a steady intake of food. He was already back on normal meal portions, even if said portions were still slightly smaller than what they should be. The two had gotten along rather well ever since Thatch shared his story of Tyde with his passenger.

Now, though, Naoto finally asked the one question Thatch was hoping he wouldn't. He didn't want Naoto to get scared of him, not when they've almost reached their destination. Thatch couldn't lie, he was proud to be Oyaji's son. Damn these unpredictable situations.

"Yes. I'm a Whitebeard pirate. Fourth Division Commander Thatch, at your service," Thatch claimed with a smirk. He may have been calm on the outside, but on the inside he was dreading the kid's reaction.

"How big is your bounty?"

"Biggest in North Blue right now."

Naoto shied away a little bit, but didn't start freaking out. Good, it looked like he recognized the danger Thatch could be, but remembered all of those good things he did like _rescue_ the brat and _go without food_ so he could recover, so maybe he could get over the general idea that all pirates are evil.

The brat was silent for a while, but eventually asked, "Why did you become a pirate?"

Thatch thought a moment. It seemed like he wasn't going to scare the kid off as long as he didn't say anything about wanting to murder people. That was easy, he just had to tell the truth.

"I did it so I could be free. Right now, I am free. I don't have to listen to any of the rules around me. If I find them tolerable, I'll put up with them. If I find them obnoxious or idiotic, I'll ignore them. I am free, because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything that I do, and no one can take that away from me - and it's the best feeling in the world."

Naoto was silent again, watching Thatch while contemplating his words. Thatch knew that it was probably different from what he expected, so he was content in his silence this time. He had Naoto's own words to ponder as well - the same ones he's been thinking over ever since the fateful day of the food argument. The brat said that Tyde's death wasn't his fault. Hearing his brothers say it was one thing - they were his brothers, that was how they were supposed to respond - but hearing it from a twelve-year-old that he barely knew was completely different. As Thatch thought it over, he came to one conclusion immediately.

This kid was a lot more mature for his age than most children.

* * *

Thatch felt an overwhelming sense of relief wash over him as he pulled up to the docks at Pares. It hadn't been a long journey compared to some of the others he had been on, but it seemed much more difficult because of the lack of food. Thatch felt exhausted, but he was still able to pull himself to his feet and get things done. He wasn't in bad enough shape to lose to anyone in this sea, either; he had beaten New World residents while feeling much worse. Still, being at a town meant that he could finally eat something and Naoto could get the nutrients he still lacked. Speaking of which…

Thatch glanced down at his passenger as they stepped off the boat, and noted the expression on Naoto's face. It was as if the kid was reluctant to step foot on land, but resolved to do it anyway. The conflicting emotions he showed made Thatch wary - something was wrong. Naoto did not want to be here at all. Before he could address it, however, the youth broke the silence.

"Thanks for rescuing me, and for feeding me… it means a lot. I guess I'll be going now." While he spoke, he didn't make eye contact at all, suddenly acting timid again. Thatch was curious about his behavior - he wouldn't say that Naoto had grown close to him, but he definitely was comfortable in his presence. There was no obvious reason for him to act like this. He moved to stop Naoto, but the kid ran off before he could. Oh, well. He could find him later. It was about time Thatch had something to eat.

Thatch easily found the street markets and the restaurants that surrounded them. He also easily devoured a normal sized meal. He would have loved to eat four or five helpings - he certainly felt like he could - but he also knew that his poor, depraved stomach couldn't handle that.

After eating, he immediately went to buy twice as much food as he knew he would need for the first leg of his journey home. _I'm not taking any chances this time._ He also bought a new Den Den Mushi to replace the one that had withered in the seawater and called Oyaji. That conversation consisted of a recounting of the events that occurred during the past two weeks and a lot of yelling from Marco, with a few concerned words from Oyaji. Thatch reassured them that he was alright and that he would be starting his journey back to the Moby Dick.

As soon as he hung up, Thatch paused, a feeling of trepidation settling in his chest. He listened for anything in his surroundings and flared his haki, trying to make sense of this sudden feeling. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong... and it had to do with Naoto. Immediately, Thatch left the shopping district and went to search for the kid in the residential area. Call it a hunch or haki or whatever, but Thatch had a sixth sense for trouble when it came to kids, and he knew for some reason that Naoto would not be by the shops.

He searched street after street, walking calmly but quickly. There was no need to panic yet. His observation haki reached out far enough to cover a good area, but close enough that he could focus on individual auras. He covered the area quickly, but couldn't find Naoto anywhere within the city limits. The whole time he was searching, that intuitive foreboding grew stronger, and Thatch knew that he had to get there _fast_.

After asking one or two people, he learned that there were a few houses in the fields for the farmers. Thatch immediately set out for them, and he was lucky because as he arrived at the first one he heard yelling - a voice he _recognized_ crying out - and Thatch couldn't help but feel a little relief that he had found the brat. At the same time however, it worried him. Following the voices - one cruel, one hurt - Thatch found Naoto and another child behind the house. He stopped behind the corner, listening to figure out the situation first before doing anything.

 _SLAP!_

"Aah!" Naoto's cry of pain made Thatch's teeth grind. No one should hurt a kid. He would have interfered there, but he wanted to know the situation before stealing a kid.

"I told you last time, you aren't allowed to run away. It's just you and me here, li'l bro, and Momma ain't around anymore to keep you in line."

"I'm sorry!"

"If you were sorry, you wouldn't keep doing it!" The other boy's voice was angry, aggressive, and unforgiving. Thatch knew he wasn't liking where this was going. If he hit Naoto one more time -

 _SLAP!_

"Aaah!"

That was _it._ Thatch intervened immediately, stepping in between the two and catching the other boy's hand before it could make contact with Naoto's cheek again. The teen (as Thatch now noticed) froze at his sudden appearance. He hadn't seen Thatch approach at all, he was just suddenly _there_. Naoto was also frozen, but with recognition. Thatch looked back at him.

"You okay, brat?" Thatch questioned Naoto.

Naoto paused, glancing between the man who rescued him three times now and his older brother, whose wrist was still gripped tightly by the pirate. He looked like his nerves were strung up, but nodded anyway.

"Good," Thatch nodded back. He turned back to the teen, giving him one of the darkest glares he had. "You. You are going to let him leave with me. You will not tell anyone, and you will not come after us unless you want to be repaid all the pain you gave him in his entire life," Thatch commanded. The older boy nodded, his aggressiveness disappearing as Thatch spoke. The pirate gave him a cold smile.

"Good. Now, I'm going to let go, and you're going to go inside and stay there, yes?"

The teen nodded again. Satisfied that he was sufficiently cowed, Thatch let go and watched as the older boy rushed inside without looking back for Naoto at all. Thatch's anger rose that much more - who didn't care for their own family's safety?

Bringing his attention back to Naoto, Thatch picked him up off the ground and carried him piggy-back back towards town without saying a word. Oh, they would talk, but only after Thatch was sure he wouldn't destroy his surroundings in rage.

* * *

"Is he the reason you didn't want to come back?" Thatch asked.

They were in a small restaurant where they weren't too crowded by people but could still have the anonymity that came with large masses of patrons. Thatch had ordered Naoto some food, and they were silent for several minutes as Thatch let his temper cool down.

Naoto looked at Thatch with surprise, but didn't respond at all.

"Oh, come on. Whenever I asked you about home you changed the subject immediately. You always avoided saying why you were a stowaway too - it wasn't that hard to figure out. I may be an idiot for letting all the food wash away, but I can tell when someone is bothered by something." Thatch gave Naoto a look as he was talking, one of those I-know-a-lot-more-than-you-think looks.

Naoto sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke up.

"We never knew our Dad, and Momma was always really sick. My brother was the one to take care of her, because I was always too small. When I was eight, he started hurting me. Said I was useless since I couldn't help with anything other than cleaning and changing the cloth on her head. Said that he had to work so hard because I was such a useless little brother. He hit me whenever he got angry. I started to run away, because I didn't like how he was hitting me, but I always came back. He would hurt me a lot more whenever I came back." Naoto paused, letting his emotions settle a little before he continued.

"He makes me take care of Momma and the house by myself now, says that he already works so much that he can't do it. He doesn't work though, he just stays home and hits me when I don't clean everything or when I do something wrong. And then Momma died…" Naoto choked up a bit. Thatch could see that he was holding in tears now. His own emotions were thoroughly confused at this point, but he remained stoic on the outside until Naoto finished his tale.

"When you found me, that was my first time running off the island. I didn't… I _don't_ want to be on the same piece of land as him. He'll still find me and hurt me. I thought that, since Momma wasn't here anymore, he wouldn't have a reason for making me stay, and I could finally get away for good."

"Why didn't you tell me this?" Thatch felt guilty, ashamed that he let this happen, but also disappointed that Naoto hadn't asked him for help with this, that he hadn't asked him to take him to a different island.

"It wasn't your problem, and I wasn't sure you would help. After all, you think that brothers are always there for you and that they protect you."

Thatch was floored. He was shocked. Did Naoto really think so low of him, after all this time? (In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but make another comparison - Tyde never let other people help with his problems. He didn't want to be a burden.)

"Kid, let me remind you of something," Thatch began. He was going to settle this issue right now, and he was going to be very upfront about it. "I went for two whole weeks without food to keep you from regressing in your own recovery from starvation. I fed you every day with the best food I could make from what we had, all the while refusing to take any of it for myself. If I am willing to starve to keep you alive and healthy, what makes you think I wouldn't take you where you wouldn't get hurt?"

Thatch gave Naoto a moment to let the words sink in. He noticed the emotions flash across the boy's face as he stared at his uneaten food - shame, guilt, relief, hope, gratefulness were all present at the same time within the youth. Thatch was definitely going to take Naoto to another island. He even had one picked out already; there was a nice barmaid there that he spent some time with right before he joined Whitebeard, a fair woman who was always looking for help around the bar. She would definitely be willing to take in Naoto, but Thatch needed the kid to ask first.

Turns out he didn't have to wait for long, because the next words he heard were "Can you take me away?"

Thatch smiled at Naoto with the biggest, most proud grin he had. "Sure thing, kiddo."

* * *

They pulled up to the docks a few days later. Thatch had informed Naoto of where to go and who to contact concerning a place to live, and also described to him what the village was like. It was a small town, with a very close-knit community that was very welcoming to outsiders - perfect for Naoto.

Naoto jumped off the boat and onto the dock, and turned back to Thatch when he didn't hear the pirate follow.

"You're not coming?" he asked.

"Nah, I've got more than enough provisions still to make it to the next island. It's about time I start getting home." Thatch smiled at Naoto. He felt extremely close to the twelve-year-old, and had grown protective of him.

"Oh, here," Thatch said, pulling out a folded piece of paper and a pouch from his pocket. He handed the pouch to Naoto, saying, "Here is some money so that you can get some decent clothes and anything else you might want. You should be okay for a month or two on that, and Mae will take care of the rest. And this," Thatch continued, handing the folded piece of paper to Naoto, "you need to give to Mae when you get to the bar. If you do, she'll take you in."

Naoto looked up from the two items to the grinning Whitebeard commander in front of him. Suddenly, he dropped the money and the note and ran forward, slamming into Thatch in a giant hug.

"Thanks. For everything," Naoto managed to get out. Was he - he was crying!

"Hey, hey, no need for the tears. You're a man. Man up," Thatch joked. Naoto looked up without breaking the hug and gave Thatch the first true smile he had seen on the brat since he first picked him up off of that pirate ship. Thatch couldn't help but hug back.

"Go live your life, kid. You're free now."

Naoto let go and retrieved his items. He grinned at Thatch and watched as the pirate cast off, waving until he couldn't see the boat anymore.

Thatch sighed. He was going to miss that kid. He was happy that he could help Naoto get away from his brother.

It wasn't right, for one brother to hurt another like that - family isn't supposed to bring pain or wounds, family brings protection and happiness.

...Right?

* * *

Naoto easily found the bar where Thatch said Mae would be working at - it was one of two in the village. He walked inside and asked for the barmaid, only to be told that she was the owner now. He was introduced to Mae, and then gave her the note from Thatch. She read it, and smiled.

"Let me show you where your room will be. I expect you to help out at the bar with serving and clearing tables, but you'll have plenty of time to do what you want as well."

Amazed that such a short note could make her so compliant, he followed. His room was nice - better than what he used to have.

Naoto spoke to Mae as she was leaving the room to go back to the bar downstairs.

"Excuse me, but what did that note say?"

"Oh, you didn't read it? Here," Mae said, handing the note to Naoto before walking out of the room.

Naoto looked at it and smiled, then set it down on the bed. _Thanks, Thatch._

* * *

 _To whom it may concern:_

 _This kid is my little brother. Take care of him for me._

 _~Fourth Division Commander Thatch_

* * *

 **Beta-read by breather.**

 **I'll post the next chapter as soon as the third is written... which will hopefully be soon. Until then, stay beautiful!**

 **~Psych**


	2. Chapter 2

Thatch knew that, at some point in his life, this was bound to happen. He was just pissed that it had happened _right now_.

He had just crossed through the Calm Belt from North Blue to the New World, and still had to travel another week to get to the _Moby Dick_. This just had to happen, though, and now he needed to make a detour, which means more time until he reaches home and his brothers.

There were three main issues that led up to this happening.

The first was that Thatch, a very infamous pirate with a huge bounty, was travelling alone in the New World… which, in hindsight, was not a good idea at all, because this sea was feared for a reason.

The second issue was that he was not only travelling alone, he was one of Whitebeard's Division Commanders who was travelling alone. He was protected by Oyaji's name, yes, but there are always idiots who go after the big shots in an attempt to get themselves more notoriety or fame.

The third issue was that Thatch was a moron. No competent pirate would neglect to take care of his own weapons, and especially his primary weapons.

All of these seemingly inconsequential details combined to create the fifth-greatest disaster that Thatch has had the misfortune to have a hand in creating.

 _Hysteria_ had come out of the Calm Belt next to one of the biggest pirate towns in the New World, Sipsey. Of course, being a pirate town, Sipsey was bound to have a large amount and variety of pirate crews docked in its ports. Even though _Hysteria_ itself was not a well-known boat, the flag flying atop the mast was, and it definitely grabbed the attention of several separate crews. Most of them were sufficiently cowed by the impending threat lingering behind the Whitebeard jolly roger, but one crew was brazen enough to come out and challenge Thatch.

By the time they had caught up to his smaller-yet-quicker _Hysteria_ , the island was out of sight. Thatch sighed, resigning himself to another pointless fight with ridiculously ignorant buffoons. It was an easy fight too, up until it happened.

Thatch had been dispatching his opponents with his dual swords, not having to put much effort in with the lackeys but using some of his stronger moves for the more seasoned fighters (no one got into the New World without being able to hold their own). The captain was definitely the strongest, but nowhere near Thatch's level. After he blocked this last strike, Thatch was going to take the opening he made with the swing and gut him.

At least, that's what would have happened if his sword hadn't shattered at the impact.

It did absolutely nothing to slow down the blow, and only with his superb reflexes did Thatch avoid losing an eye. He did receive a nasty slice curving around his left eye, though, and he quickly leaped back before he got hit again. The captain, who had realized by this point that he couldn't win as he had intended, stood in shock, along with the members of the crew still standing.

Thatch scowled. He was ending this now, before any of them got any ideas. There was an attack that he had been waiting to try out.

He moved his legs and his arms into a stance he had only seen once, but had never actually done before. It was of the Kuraigana style - the sword style that Hawkeye used. He ignored the blood running down his face and into his eye, and focused. He felt the air, both how thin it was and the thickness it held. He felt it… and he cut it. Thatch sent a flying slash straight into the middle of the other ship and sliced through the air, creating a gap that quickly turned into a vacuum. It pulled everything that wasn't nailed down - including the pirates - towards it, and absolutely crushed it, people and all. All that was left after everything had died down was the boat and a pile of sinking debris and corpses.

The whole event had taken three seconds.

Thatch knew why Hawkeye didn't use that one all that often. It was too easy of a win. One slice, and everyone and everything around you gets destroyed. Winning like that just made you get out of practice in other methods. Nevertheless, Thatch was glad he had a chance to see him perform it - it was breathtaking, and Thatch actually had to make an effort to ensure that his own replica was much, much smaller. Hawkeye had destroyed an entire island when he had done it.

It was also an excellent move to use to end a fight quickly, despite being absolutely overkill. The only reason Thatch had never done it before was because he was always around his brothers or civilians, whom he did not want to get caught up in the destruction. The vacuum it created did not discriminate between allies and enemies.

No one else could have replicated it to the exact degree that Thatch had, and especially on the first try. They didn't call him the Larcenist for nothing.

Thatch relaxed his stance, bringing one arm up to wipe the blood off his face. It didn't work too well - head wounds bleed a lot more than any others he might have gotten. He set his last sword down and went below deck to get the medical kit and a mirror - he didn't want to lose too much blood. His eye would be fine as long as he kept the cut clean. The sword had missed his eye by an inch, but if it got infected he risked going blind in that eye.

While he took care of that, he thought over exactly what had caused his sword to break in the first place.

It wasn't the pressure from the blow. His were Skillful Grade swords, some of the best in the world and able to withstand an unworldly amount of pressure before breaking. Besides, the attacking captain had almost no strength compared to the average crew member of the Whitebeards. Thatch wondered how he even made it into the New World in the first place. ' _Maybe he lived here and had just started out?'_

He honestly could not think of how his sword could have broken. With pressure ruled out, the only thing would be that the blade had been weakened, but that would only happen if Thatch neglected to take proper care of it, and he _always_ took care of his weapons. He spent a good portion of his day going through his personal mini arsonal and giving each blade, dagger, throwing knife, needle, bo staff, and other various instruments the attention that they needed.

"…Son of a bitch," Thatch cursed. He _hadn't_ been taking care of his weapons, not since Tyde had been killed just over a month ago. He had been too busy moping around the _Moby Dick_ and later taking care of Naoto to focus on it. He remembered just dumping the water out of the sheathes every time they got wet and putting them somewhere else, and never going back to get the salt off and give them a new oil coating. He let them rust and degenerate, and now they were worthless.

Just to confirm this, he brought out his one remaining sword. Sure enough, there was rust around the hilt, and the edge of the blade was dull. Feeling the metal with his fingers, he could tell that the coating of oil that should have been there was absent, and had been for a while. To have let his swords deteriorate to this point, he didn't deserve to call himself a swordsman.

' _Am I so incompetent that I can't even pay attention to things like this?'_ It was one thing after another. First, he failed to prevent Tyde's death, and then he failed to take care of his weapons. He was a failure, through and through.

Thatch pushed those thoughts aside. They may be true, but they also distracted from the immediate issue: he needed new swords.

He needed to go to Kadoka.

* * *

The eternal pose was very worn. Thatch had often lent it to his brothers when they had a need for a new weapon, and the name carved into the wood was barely recognizable. It served its purpose, though it was getting near its breaking point. Maybe Thatch should create a new one - Pose Artificing had to be one of the most useful non-combative skills he had acquired.

He was very lucky to have found an Artificer to observe in the first place, because they were more rare than Conqueror's Haki and tended to be extremely likely to kill someone for intruding on their practice. They were also protected almost to the degree that the Tenryuubito were by the World Government, for their rarity and value to the Marines. It was a very unknown skill to have, and very hard to learn… Unless you were Thatch. Who knew how often one of Thatch's poses have helped the Whitebeards out of the occasional scrape. There were two entire bookshelves in the navigation room dedicated to the poses he created, but this was one of the three that he always kept for himself.

It was the pose to Hytop, where the greatest swordsmith that Thatch had ever met had set up shop. It didn't get a lot of visitors, and only those who knew how to get there would ever go.

Looking up from his examination, Thatch noticed that he was nearing the island. There was a sandbar around the entire island preventing any vessel that drew more than two feet of water from getting near. Ideally, Thatch would use a rowboat, but his personal sloop was not capable of storing other boats on board. _Hysteria_ had a draft of eight feet, so he would have to swim to the island.

Resigning himself to a very long swim, Thatch grabbed a waterproof bag and packed it with another outfit and plenty of money. He made sure to blow plenty of air into the bag before sealing it as well to prevent it from sinking. He connected the bag to his waist with a long rope, tossed it in before him, and dove in, heading straight for the island that sat a quarter mile away.

After finding a secluded area and changing into dry clothes, Thatch set out for the bar where he knew Kadoka often spent his time. Hopefully he would be there this time - on his last visit, Thatch had to wait a week and a half before the swordsmith came out of hiding. If he didn't want to be found, Kadoka made damn sure that no one would find him.

* * *

"Sorry, you just missed him. He headed back to his forge - he said something about an idiot needing his help?" The barkeep knew Thatch well enough from his visits to the island to know exactly who it was that Kadoka was talking about. Thatch also knew that he was the aforementioned idiot. He gave the barkeep a false-indignant look.

"Does he really think so lowly about me? I feel offended," he said jokingly, while his face donned an affronted expression. The barkeep just rolled his eyes.

"His forge is in the mountains, I assume you remember that. Get going."

Thatch smiled and gave his thanks to the man, then headed out towards the tallest mountain on the island.

* * *

 _Left to grab some metal. Be back soon._

Thatch read the note and swore. "Soon" for the swordsmith meant "within a week" for others. He had thought that the swordsmith would be waiting at the forge for him, seeing as he had expected Thatch to arrive that day and went ahead of him. Guess not.

Thatch let out an exasperated sigh, then settled down on the ground by the door. Normally he would just break down the door and wait inside, but not with Kadoka - last time he broke down the swordsmith's door, the swordsmith broke him. Thatch would not be doing that again any time soon. Or ever.

He was asleep by the time Kadoka came back. Thatch only realized it when he was being kicked awake by a very hard leather boot to the face.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?!" Thatch complained.

"I don't let bums inside the forge." Kadoka's voice was rough and scratchy, and his beard even more so. He had cut it shorter again - either that, or it had once more accidentally caught on fire. Thatch bet on the latter.

He was short, his hair a salt-and-pepper color and looked like the man had cut it himself without using a mirror. His clothes were all heavy cloth or leather and covered as much skin as possible. The old geezer was chewing tobacco again as well, Thatch noticed - he could smell it on him.

"The hell you doing out here, sonny? Your old man finally kick you out?" Kadoka's voice cut through Thatch's assessment of the man.

"He couldn't get rid of me even if he wanted to," Thatch replied. He knew the old swordsmith meant his words in good faith.

"Then why the hell are you outside and not sitting at my table?"

"I vividly remember the last time I entered your home without permission. I want my shoulder to remain the way it is now, thank you very much." Thatch gave a barely noticeable shiver at the memory.

"Right. Looks like you remember that lesson." Oh, that was the geezer's you're-not-as-dumb-as-you-look face. Point for Thatch. At least he hadn't figured out why Thatch was here in the first place.

"Now get your sorry ass inside before you break the other sword."

... _Shit._

* * *

"These were Skillful Grade Swords, you dumbass. How the hell did you mess them up so bad?"

This didn't look like it was going to be a nice chat. For one, he was cornered at a table in the dirtiest yet most well-kept forge he had ever seen. Then there was the angry old man man who happened to be one of the best makers of any bladed weapon in the New World. (It would be good to note that he kept a good portion of the weapons he made, and they are presently scattered throughout the room.) Then there was the embarrassment factor.

Thatch - The Larcenist, the Fourth Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, and a pirate with a bounty over 500 million Beli - was being lectured by a 68-year-old hermit who happened to know how to properly forge a sword. ' _I hope Marco never hears about this_ ,' he thought. ' _He'd never let me live it down.'_

"Are you listening to me, brat?" That would be Kadoka, who had just noticed that Thatch wasn't looking as ashamed as he would have liked. "Skillful Grade Swords! There are only forty-eight others in the world of the same quality, and only thirty-three others that are better! Now, if you don't explain to me _exactly_ how you managed to destroy two of the best swords in the world, you won't have any hands to hold the next ones you want me to make."

Thatch gulped. He knew the reason, of course - he neglected to care for them properly for over a month, and the metal deteriorated. He also knew that if he told the scruffy swordsmith that, then he would definitely be losing a body part. No weaponsmith could properly forge a weapon if he didn't know how to use it, after all.

If he didn't tell the truth, though, he knew for certain that Kadoka would follow through on his threat, Whitebeard's wrath be damned. ' _Screw this.'_

"I neglected to give the swords the proper care that they deserved for over a month. They grew rusted and the metal in the blades deteriorated, and when I went into battle with the weakened blades one of them snapped. I apologize for my neglect." Thatch tried to sound as sincere as possible - not that he wasn't, it was just better for him to make it clear that he regretted this. And healthier. After he had finished his (he hoped it sounded) sincere apology, the commander held his breath and waited for the pain that signalled a broken bone or a missing finger and watched the swordsmith carefully.

Kadoka sat there, analyzing him and not saying anything, giving him a deep, hard glare. This was going to be bad. This was going to be very, very bad, and Thatch was going to have to say his prayers fast because he was about to be murdered by a hermit.

"Boy." When Kadoka spoke, Thatch visibly flinched. ' _I am so, so dead.'_ "You need to get your head together."

"...Huh?" he was confused. Still wary, but confused. He looked up at Kadoka and waited for clarification.

"There is no way that, under normal circumstances, you would have ever neglected to care for the swords that I gave you - the swords you watched me forge." Was the old swordsman actually showing mercy? "There is something going on in your head that is distracting you from everything else, and until you find it and _fix it_ , I refuse to make you new swords. Not when you'll just screw them up again."

Okay, so this was mercy, but it felt like a punishment. The geezer wanted Thatch to just get over the fact that he played a part in his brother's death, and that was something that he was just not prepared to do anytime soon.

"Tell me what happened," the swordsmith demanded. The commander wasn't surprised that he figured out some event had occurred to make Thatch this way - that's just how the old man worked. He just knew stuff. But, did he really want to share it with him? Naoto had been the only person he previously spoke with about it, and even then it was in extremely vague terms.

In the end, he decided, it didn't really matter. Someone should know just how much Thatch had screwed up, and Kadoka was great at keeping things to himself.

"You know how our fleet is set up, right?" Thatch began.

"Of course. First four divisions stationed on the _Moby Dick_ , and three divisions each for the other four main ships. It's rare that all of them are together at once, though, since you guys have so many territories. What does this have to do with anything?" Kadoka asked gruffly.

Thatch sighed. "The _Moby_ was just leaving one of our territories - Oyaji likes to make stops at his islands once in awhile - when we were attacked by a massive crew of rookies. As in, we needed two divisions to make up the manpower. Still don't know where they came from…" Thatch tailed off in thought, then shook his head, returning to the present. "The second and fourth divisions were the ones fighting. It was just one of those battles where we let the newbies on the crew get more experience, so we - Tyde and I and the more skilled members of the divisions - hung back and stayed out of the fight. It was going well, nobody got seriously hurt, and the rookies were getting their asses handed to them."

Thatch had to stop, and his face slowly gained a very burdened and sad look. He had always tried not to think about this. It hurt too much. But Kadoka wanted to know, so he had to tell.

"I turned my back on him for maybe a minute to help a guy in my division, and by the time I finish and look over to where he was... Tyde had a knife in his back, and his blood was everywhere, and his eyes… He looked at me, like I betrayed him. It was almost as if I had put the knife there. I couldn't stop it, and now my best friend - my _brother_ \- is _dead_."

He was choking on his emotions. There was a reason he didn't talk to anyone about it like this, why he kept it tied down inside for so long. It hurt too much, there was too much _pain_ and _guilt_ and _shame_ and _regret_. He did his best to hold in the tears. The last thing he wanted to do now was cry. "It's all my fault," he whispered to himself.

Thatch was abruptly brought out of that line of thinking by a hand smarting his face.

Touching his cheek, he looked up at Kadoka, confused about why he would slap him. ' _Even if I did deserve it.'_ The swordsmith's face was pure fury, with a little frustration and something else that Thatch could not identify (was that compassion?).

When Kadoka spoke, he could hear the barely restrained anger within his words, and every syllable was strained as it came out.

"You, Thatch," he began, "are the Fourth Division Commander of Whitebeard's fleet. You are one of the sixteen strongest members of a crew of over 1600 men, and you have authority to command any and all of them, bar the other commanders and Newgate himself. You have a job to do, dammit! Stop blaming yourself for something you couldn't control and start acting like the person Whitebeard hand-picked to take care of his men!"

Thatch's head was reeling. He hadn't realized that he was failing in his duties as a commander. He took the position very seriously, despite being the one who usually joked off every so often.

Besides, Kadoka used his name. He was showing emotions other than arrogance and annoyance - and he was doing this because of Thatch. He knew the swordsmith was serious.

He took a minute to get his emotions in check - he felt embarrassed by his small breakdown, but at the same time the commander felt so much better now. _'I guess I needed that after all.'_ Finally, once he could form words again, he told the swordsmith, "Thanks. I needed that."

"I could tell, brat," he replied, now with a smug grin on his face. "Now, get up."

"What?" Thatch was confused. He was still caught up in his emotions from that outburst - he couldn't think properly right now.

"Since you obviously didn't care enough about your previous swords, you're going to make your new ones," Kadoka announced. As he spoke, the swordsmith moved to the chimney and started heating up the forge.

"What!" Thatch exclaimed. The old man was letting him use the forge? Nothing was making sense.

"Is that all you can say, boy?" Kadoka questioned. "I know you can handle it, you've watched me work before. You're just going to forge the blades, I'll still be pairing them with the hilt and handguard." The fire in the hearth was lit now, and the swordsmith started pumping air into it to make it hotter.

Thatch had no idea what was going on anymore, and he was still trying to calm himself down, so he just went with it. It was easier than trying to think it through at this point. "So, where will you be? Going to the bar again?" he asked.

"Like hell I'm gonna let you use my forge on your own! You'd break it! I'm going to stay here and supervise," the swordsmith declared.

"I thought you trusted me to make the blades?" Thatch asked.

"I do. Doesn't mean I trust you not to burn the place down in the process, though," Kadoka replied in a cynical tone. "Now get off your ass and start working! I already got you the metal you need - some of the best in the New World."

Thatch couldn't help but obey. After all, if he protested at this point, he would be asking for missing fingers.

* * *

Forging a sword is a hard, long and hot process. Thatch was of the opinion that most people did not understand how much effort it took to make a sword, otherwise they would take better care of them.

Forging one firsthand had hardened that opinion into a belief.

For a good quality blade, it required a very large amount of the purest steel one can find, heating it up, and continuously layering it and folding it over so that there ended up being hundreds of layers of steel along the length of the blade. In other words, there was lots of fire, heat, sweat, and hammering.

Next, the sword's basic shape needed to be hammered out, getting rid of any creases and leaving a tapering strip of metal on the end to fit the handle onto later. In other words, many hours of fire, heat, sweat, sparks, and hammering.

After that, the blade's point and bevelling needed to be reinforced from the primary shaping, which means more fire, heat, sweat, and hammering in order to make the edges thin out into what will eventually be the sharpened edge of the blade.

Then, the swordsmith needed to normalize the blade in order to make the metal retain the shape even when hot. This meant - you guessed it! - more fire, heat, and sweat, and eventually letting the blade cool down to a normal temperature by air.

Then, the swordsmith grinded the blade's sharpened edges into shape with hand files while also getting the top layer of grit off of the steel. He couldn't actually make it sharp, yet - that would cause the blade to break. In other words, lots of muscle and sparks and sweat.

Next, the blade had to be hardened, which settled the steel in a way that made it almost unbreakable if done right, or extremely fragile if done wrong. This involved yet more fire, heat, sweat, and the occasional dunking of a superheated piece of metal into a similarly-hot vat of water.

Only after all of these could the swordsmith spend hours upon days sharpening the blade and honing it to perfection, after which the handle is formed and fitted to the blade to make it perfectly balanced and useful in combat.

Each stage of forging had its own standards for the angles, creases, hardness, thickness, heat levels, and overall shape of the metal. It was extremely difficult, and extremely time-consuming. The smith couldn't just leave the sword in the forge to heat up and go take a nap, either, because there are certain areas or certain methods that need constant attention. If he messed up, Thatch would either have to spend hours fixing his mistakes or start over completely, depending on how bad it was. It was stressful, tiring, and downright draining on his energy and emotions.

Thatch had to do this twice, and his goal was to make both blades of a quality that matched a Skillful Grade sword. Normally, this would be impossible for anyone who had never before forged a blade of any kind, but Thatch was the Larcenist, and he earned that name for a reason.

The process took days to complete one blade, and once Kadoka had given his approval, the old man immediately set to give that blade a handle while Thatch worked on the second.

Thatch spent fourteen days in the forge, working on both swords. Fourteen days of constant sweat, heat, and muscle exertion, where he had little time to eat or sleep because if he stopped paying attention to his swords for too long, he would end up ruining them.

Needless to say, when he finally had the second blade approved by Kadoka, Thatch slept for two days straight.

* * *

"I've already had them appraised. They are officially replacements for the two Skillful Grade swords you destroyed."

Kadoka was presenting him with the finished swords, and holy shit, they were gorgeous. As Thatch was halfway into a trance while he was making them, he never really got a chance to look at them beyond a cursory glance of approval. He wished he had, though.

The blades themselves were different lengths, one about a foot shorter than the other. He didn't realize it at the time, but this was perfect for his preferred style - one sword had a longer reach to occupy his opponent, while the other was short enough to sneak underneath or in between and attack.

Neither had any specific aesthetic design - at a first glance, they looked like any ordinary sword. However, both had an underlying feeling of strength, stubbornness, and loyalty, and that was where Thatch found their beauty. They had a sort of harmony towards each other, as well, and if Thatch had to guess he would find it much easier to fight with these two swords in his hands than with either one individually or with one paired with an outside sword.

It was weird, though, because as Thatch picked up one - the shorter one - and let the other go, he felt a distinctly different… personality. They felt similar when held at the same time, but separately, it was as if they were opposites. The shorter, while lacking the malevolent presence of a cursed sword, had a reckless feeling to it that led Thatch to believe it wanted more than was necessary. It was selfish, and would not care if it harmed any who were not its master. The longer, on its own, had a calm, flowing attitude, as though it would go with anything - able to flow with the course of the tides, giving when it needed to, but not bending to another's will.

In a way, it was similar to the yin and yang, although Thatch felt that that wasn't exactly a fair comparison.

"They're perfect," Thatch said, his face awed by what he had created.

"I would hope so. You sure took your time on them," Kadoka lightly joked.

"What do you mean?"

"Normally, for blades like these, I would have only taken a week. You took two." Oh, the old man was bragging now, was he?

"For your information," Thatch began indignantly, "I can only learn the professional skills of those I observe, and later, perform them without the imperfections I saw in my observations. I can _not_ copy time management skills."

"Are you saying my forging methods had imperfections?" Kadoka was teasing, yes, but also genuinely curious, Thatch could tell. _'Of course, a master also has room to improve, though I am hardly the one to make those corrections.'_

"No, your forging methods are the best I've ever seen. I didn't have to correct anything as I was using your methods to make my swords. I just took out some of the aesthetic detailing," Thatch stated. The old swordsmith looked satisfied, but he could tell that the geezer was going to be looking for ways to improve nonetheless.

"What will you name them?" Kadoka asked, suddenly turning serious.

Thatch looked down at the sword currently in his hands - the shorter one - and thought. The naming of a sword was important. The name is what finalized the personality of the sword, and it had to match the presence the sword carried. No blade could properly be wielded until it had its own identity - especially those of such a high quality.

Since he created this pair of blades, he would have to name them. The creator must recognize his own creations, after all.

After sitting in thought for a few minutes, Thatch ended up listening to what he was hearing from the swords themselves. To any true swordsman, everything could breathe, and the weapons he held were no different.

"This one," Thatch announced, "is Tatsuyama." He held out the shorter sword, and could literally feel the metal vibrate with a satisfied hum underneath his fingers. Kadoka looked impressed.

"And the other?" he asked.

Thatch set aside Tatsuyama and picked up the longer of the pair, the calmer one. He sat for a minute once more, meditating over the sword before naming it. "Kosame."

Kadoka nodded in acknowledgement, not wanting to break the almost religious silence that occupied the room at the moment.

Eventually, though, someone had to say something. Thatch decided that he might as well do it.

"So, do I have to pay anything?"

* * *

It turned out that, after using the forge for two weeks, Thatch did have to pay for the materials he used to make his swords, though it was considerably less than what it would have been had Kadoka made them himself. He felt satisfaction in more than one way from the entire ordeal, though; it's not everyday that someone makes their own swords.

Kadoka bugged him about the slice on his left eye until Thatch got a doctor to look at it. He had left it mostly untreated while he was forging, and it ended up getting infected. The doctor, who had seen a good majority of the Whitebeard commanders at one point or another (The island housed one of the world's best swordsmiths. Where else would they go?), recognized Thatch and immediately started yelling at him while cleaning out the wound and stitching it shut. He told the commander, very clearly frustrated, that it would definitely scar. The doctor did not seem happy when Thatch exclaimed that it would make for a great story for the others back home.

Thatch, meanwhile, had some time after everything to finally think for himself, and decided he had one more stop to make before finally going back to the _Moby Dick_ again. It was about time he said goodbye to Tyde.

As he was walking out the door, new swords in their sheaths at his hip, Thatch was stopped by Kadoka.

"Boy," the old man called out. His serious tone was back, and Thatch knew that this couldn't be good.

"What is it?" he asked, turning back to look at the swordsmith. What he saw, though, is not what he expected. The geezer looked worried. That was not an emotion one would normally associate with Kadoka. It made Thatch dread the coming conversation, and what would be brought up.

"When you were telling me about how your brother died," the old man started, and the slightly tense air between them became thicker as he continued, "you made it sound as if there weren't any enemies near the two of you at all during the fight. Was it really like that in the battle?"

Thatch was confused at the line of inquiry, but subconsciously he knew where this was going, and turned to look the swordsmith fully in the eyes. "Yes. All of the inexperienced fighters had them in the front lines. We were in the way back, completely out of the battle. Why do you ask, old geezer?"

Kadoka met Thatch's gaze, eyes unwavering and completely serious. "If there were no enemies near you, then how did your brother end up with a knife in the back?" he challenged.

At the underlying accusation, Thatch immediately had several thoughts swirling through his head. Some accused the old man of lying, some were insisting that what he was saying could never happen, some were threatening the man to leave his family alone, and some - the portion Thatch was ashamed of but leant the most credence anyway - agreed with what he was implying.

Thatch's first reaction, though, was the one he would have chosen even if his emotions hadn't run ahead of him. He dropped everything, rushing forwards in a purposeful yet quick walk and grabbed the old swordsmith by his shirt, holding him close threateningly. "What are you trying to say, Kadoka?" he demanded.

"I'm saying that it may not have been those other pirates who killed the commander, _commander_." Kadoka was not cowed, would not be cowed. He had lived too long and met too many dangerous elements to think of Thatch, as emotional as he was right now, as a threat.

"Who else could it have been, then? They were the only ones there other than our crew!"

" _Exactly._ " Thatch's head was reeling. Did the swordsmith think that -?

"What are you trying to say, Kadoka?" If he meant what Thatch thought he meant, what Thatch knew he meant (and secretly what Thatch believed as well), then the commander was going to get extremely angry in a very short amount of time.

"You know exactly what I am trying to say, boy." Kadoka was having none of this shit. "You just don't want to admit to the possibility that -"

"That what?!" Thatch yelled. Oh, man, he was emotional right now. "That you think that one of my brothers killed Tyde?!"

"Don't act like it isn't a possibility! How else could he have gotten a knife in his back if there weren't any enemies nearby to stick it in him?" Kadoka wasn't yelling. He wasn't raising his voice, and to Thatch, that was what made the whole thing serious to him. The fact that the swordsmith was still talking calmly and rationally about this said a lot - Thatch just wasn't able to think at the moment, with all the emotions that were running through his head.

Of course Thatch knew that was a possibility. Logically, it was always a possibility, and probably the most reasonable one as well. Hell, Thatch had thought of that as a possibility since the moment he saw Tyde with a knife in his back.

He didn't want to admit it, though. He didn't want to admit to the fact that one of his brothers might have betrayed them all.

He didn't want to admit that he thought one of their brothers was disloyal to the family.

He didn't want to admit that he didn't have faith in his own family anymore.

It scared him, that this was a possibility, because it meant it could happen again, that one of their brothers committed the ultimate sin on any ship and killed a crewmate, and that one of their brothers was not happy in the family that they had.

It scared him, and the fact that it scared him made him even more scared.

Thatch could have kept ignoring it, could have kept covering it up with sorrow and guilt, but Kadoka confronted him with it. Kadoka made him respond to it, and that is something that Thatch never wanted to do. Thatch was never prepared to face this challenge.

All of this swept through him at once, and suddenly the tears that had been lurking just behind his eyes could not stop flooding out.

"Of course I know that. I have always… ever since I saw his eyes. I just… " Thatch couldn't find the words to fit the situation. There were no words he could use right now to show what he was feeling. The horrible, aching, despair that wouldn't go away because his brother was dead, and it was probably another of his brothers who killed him.

Kadoka, callous though he was, let Thatch have a moment before asking, "What are you going to do about it?"

That was the question, though, wasn't it? What was Thatch going to do about it? What _could_ he do about it? He couldn't go to Oyaji yet, that was for sure - he would be reprimanded or lightly chided for not having enough faith in his family if he didn't have enough evidence to show him. He couldn't just go around asking, either - the others would just go straight to Oyaji about the problem, and the same thing would happen.

Or Thatch could end up with a knife in his back.

No, he needed to do this carefully. Ask about who was there in the battle, maybe under the pretense of checking up on how the guys are doing emotionally. He would probably get made fun of, but that was okay. As long as no one else got hurt.

First things first, though.

"I'm going to make one more stop before I go home, and then I'll find out who it might have been if it really was one of the others."

Kadoka didn't look sold on Thatch's obvious outwards denial of it, but Thatch thought that a possibility was still just a possibility. There could be another explanation. He waved goodbye to the old swordsmith as he started back down the mountain, unheeded this time but burdened with a new, dark objective.

* * *

The barkeep on Hytop was a really chill kind of guy. He let most customers fight it out amongst themselves, so long as they didn't do any property damage, and he enjoyed the company of the regulars, who always tipped well. He would get the occasional guy who tried to eat and run, but those were rare because of the island's lack of notoriety.

There was only one customer he had that classified as weird, but he thought it was the good kind of weird.

The man was dressed in a chef's outfit with the loudest pompadour on his head, and two brand new swords that came straight from Kadoka's forge on his hip. He had seen him here before once or twice - he often came to the island to see the swordsmith, but the barkeep never got the man's name.

That day, the mystery man had walked in, ordered a mug, and left right afterwards. That wasn't the weird part, though. No, this guy left a sack with one million beri in it sitting on the counter as payment.

The barkeep, as decent as one could be in a world where pirates exist, had one of his busboys run out to catch the man so he could get his change back. Two minutes later, the lad came running back in, saying the man wasn't anywhere to be found.

Bartenders only tended to be somewhat decent, though, and he eventually looked into the bag and counted out the money into a pile. One million beri, and a note with a jolly roger on it. The grizzled owner read it, and laughed.

Yes, some people were weird, but this was the Grand Line.

* * *

 _To whom it may concern:_

 _Use this to start (or pay off) the tab for the swordsmith Kadoka._

 _Trust me, he's earned it._

 _~Fourth Division Commander Thatch_

* * *

 **Hello beauties! I hope you enjoyed that more than the first. The plot is going to start picking up pretty quickly after this - I have quite a few surprises in store for this story.**

 **Don't be afraid to leave a review! I love getting feedback from readers, so if there is something you like, or something you don't, or questions about what I have written, go ahead and let me know! I'll try to respond as soon as possible.**

 **I am starting college in the next week (What! In the summer?!) so I may not be able to get chapters out as quickly, but I promise - on my life - I will finish what I start. No worries! There just may be a longer than usual wait in between chapters.**

 **Beta-read by the wonderful breather.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, I am so, so sorry for not getting this out earlier. I feel like I let you down in a way, but in my defense I never set a specific date for when I would have these out, and this is why.**

 **Don't do summer college - there is way too much work condensed into five weeks.**

 **Anyway, here's a new chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

Thatch had never liked flies.

They got into everything - every sealed barrel, every bag of rice, every shelf of meat - and ruined it. The meat would soil because the flies laid eggs on it. The fruits and vegetables would rot because flies fed on them. Everything that wasn't ruined on contact became an incubator for the myriad of diseases the flies carried with them, all of which were transferred into the food that the flies landed on, ate from, or bred on. Flies were a cook's worst nightmare.

As Thatch walked up the main slope of Avalton, the Whitebeard Pirates' chosen island to memorialize their deceased friends and allies, he couldn't help but contemplate the existence of flies.

He had heard from somewhere that every creature had a purpose in the world to make it better, but for the life of him Thatch could not find anything good about that insect. All it did was grow and infest and contaminate. They were attracted to the rotten things while being rotten themselves. ' _No,_ ' Thatch thought, ' _nothing good comes when there are flies involved._ '

It was a long walk up the slope, as the whole island was basically its own hill. The peak, though, was completely flat, almost like a plateau. The scenery was gorgeous - anyone would agree - and you could see the ocean from anywhere on the island. It wasn't small by any means; no, that was just the way the island was shaped. It was made for sailors, and that was why Edward Newgate chose this island as the place where all of his sons could roam free in the next life.

What a grim prospect to think about for a father. Almost as bad as flies.

As Thatch neared the top of the island, and his destination, his train of thought about that horrible insect vanished. After all, it wasn't appropriate to think about such petty things among those who no longer can.

It was sad, the size of the graveyard. Edward Newgate had been a pirate for a long time, and when you are a captain for as long as he had been, you tend to lose some crew members along the way. With the size of the crew being as large as it is, though, you tend to lose a lot more than normal. Even if you are a Yonko, and your crew has monstrous strength to match.

Thatch's demeanor was somber as he walked past all of his fallen brothers. Every stone, sword, spear, or monument in the ground was one more brother that he couldn't save. He knew he was being harsh on himself - one person can't possibly be everywhere at once, and most of them had died long before he was picked up by Oyaji - but he still felt sorrow and guilt at the sight of it.

Eventually, Thatch made it to the Commander section.

There were only three monuments here. One was for the Fourth Division Commander before him, one was for the first person to take command of the Twelfth Division. One was for Tyde.

Thatch stopped in front of the latter. When he was first here for the funeral, he hadn't payed much attention to the stone itself; he was too busy blaming himself for the man's death. Marco had to send him back to the ship - if he had stayed any longer, he would have been emotionally crushed by the entire event.

It was a shame, though. The craftsmen on the ship had put a lot of effort and detail into making it - one could almost see Tyde's personality in the stonework. The marble was still clean, too; it had only been two months since he had died.

' _Two months…_ '

That was a long time to go without talking to your family. He should fix that.

Thatch sat down in front of the marker, legs crossed and hands fidgeting. It was hard to start a conversation with someone you had failed. How do you address a person when you had watched as their life bled out in front of you? It was hard, and Thatch was finding that the words just wouldn't come, that they got stuck in his throat far before ever leaving his mouth, and everything he could say wouldn't be adequate for what he wanted Tyde to know.

He wanted him to know that he was sorry.

He wanted him to know that he regretted not turning around sooner.

He wanted him to know that he didn't see who had killed him.

He wanted him to know that he would remember every second of their time together.

He wanted him to know that he was loved.

Thatch wanted to find the words to convey these feelings to his late best friend, but he just… couldn't. For once, it was hard to talk to his brother.

Still, though, he _was_ his brother. He needed to say something - Tyde deserved more than his silence.

"Hey, bro," Thatch began, "It's been a while. I'm sorry I haven't gotten here sooner. Marco made me take a vacation to work off some of the stress that I've been feeling. Well, it wasn't a vacation at first. I ended up going to North Blue for…"

Thatch talked for hours. He told Tyde the stories of his solo travels over the past five weeks - he told him about Naoto and how much the brat reminded him of Tyde. He told him about how he broke his swords, and then made his own new ones after Kadoka had yelled at him. He told Tyde about the islands he landed on, the people living there, and the unique cultures of each village he went through. Thatch talked about anything and everything he could think of. Eventually, though, he ran out of things to say, and sat in silence once more in front of the memorial, contemplating whether or not he should mention what he had been thinking about.

It felt like taboo, to discuss the circumstances of one's death in front of the deceased. Especially when the topic covered possible betrayal.

Yes, Thatch would have to ask - not that he was expecting an answer, but still, it was the intent that mattered. First things first, though. He had done enough stalling at this point; he had an apology to make.

"Tyde…" the chef began, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. If I had been there a second sooner… If I had turned around an instant earlier…"

All the emotions Thatch had kept bottled up inside for the longest amount of time suddenly came loose. He was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and grief and pain and regret and shame.

 _Stop being so conceited, bro. The world doesn't revolve around you._

"But it's my fault! I was right there, I was right next to you, and I didn't do anything to stop it from happening. I didn't even catch the guy's face…" Thatch bit out, trying to keep the emotions in. Trying and failing, because he could taste salt in his mouth and feel a chill on his cheeks where the wind swept up against the wet skin.

 _It wasn't your job to babysit me. We're both Commanders - we have men to look after. They were your responsibility, not me._

"Still, though, I could have done something!" Thatch was getting frustrated. Tears were leaking from his eyes, and no matter what he said, he knew that Tyde would never blame him. He wasn't being blamed, and he hated it. It made him feel confused.

 _Maybe you could have, maybe not. Either way, I have a feeling that the same thing would have happened in the end._

Thatch's heart was tearing apart inside of him. It hurt - it hurt _so bad_ and nothing he could do or say would stop it. "I feel so weak. I couldn't save you…"

 _So what are you going to do about it?_

That brought Thatch out of his emotions very quickly. He only had one line of thoughts running through his head at the moment. ' _What can I do about it?'_

He couldn't stop Tyde from being killed. He didn't even see the bastard's face so he could avenge his brother. ' _I can't do anything…'_

Thatch's voice was barely above a whisper at this point. "Brother, forgive me. I couldn't…"

 _I'm not going to forgive you, Thatch._

Ah, there it was. That was the moment Thatch had been waiting for - the one he had been needing. All of the guilt and shame and regret he had been feeling were finally validated. As much as he was satisfied, though, he felt his heart breaking into a million tiny pieces. It hurt to hear his own brother say that to him. As much as he knew he deserved it, it hurt to finally hear the words.

 _It's not your fault._

Wait, what?

 _Why should I forgive you if you haven't done anything wrong?_

If he hadn't wronged his brother, though, then why did he feel like this? Why was his soul overwhelmed by regret and shame and grief and sadness and _guilt_? He deserved to be blamed. He deserved to be held responsible for what happened that day, so why did those words make him so damn happy?

 _Let it go, Thatch. It wasn't your fault, and it never will be._

He couldn't stop it any more. At that moment, the Fourth Division Commander cried harder than he had ever cried before in his life. Once he started, he couldn't bring himself to stop. This wasn't like earlier, either, when the tears had been slowly leaking out of his eyes. No, those were tears that had escaped through the barrier he had erected to keep his emotions in.

Now, though, that barrier was gone, and the tears started to flood out. Every tear he cried now carried something inside it - something indescribable, that carried away all of the pain and grief he had been holding inside him since the moment his brother died. Every tear that made its way down his face washed away just a little portion of the large black stain on his soul that was made of despair and shame and regret. After all, unhappiness can't stick in a person's soul when it's slick with tears.*

He sat there for a long time, just letting the salt on his face cleanse his emotions. He had never gotten the chance to actually grieve his brother's death before - he had never given himself the chance. Now, though, he finally let himself mourn, and it did more good for him than anything else ever could have.

* * *

The sun was beautiful as it set that day. It was kind of symbolic to him as he sat there, almost as if the world was saying, "It's over now, you can rest."

Thatch leaned back against the large stone, sighing deeply. He felt relieved, as if some great weight that had gone unnoticed on his shoulders was finally lifted off and thrown into the far distance, never to return again. He felt… good. Content. It had been a while since he felt this way, and he liked it.

It wasn't that the Commander no longer mourned his brother. No, this type of contentment only came with acceptance of what had happened, and knowing that he can do better in the future.

There was just one thing keeping this moment from being any better.

Thatch knew he wasn't sure about whether or not his suspicions had proof to back them up. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he believed in them completely in the first place. He was sure about one thing, though - he had to make a decision about it, and he had to make it consciously to himself.

He had to be sure that there was a traitor in his family before he could do anything about them.

This was not a decision easily made for him. For the Whitebeards, one of the few things that every single person had in common was unshakeable faith in their crewmates, commanders, and captain - in their family. Ever since he had joined up with them - ever since he was accepted as a brother to all of them and a son to Whitebeard himself - he had never once doubted where his family's intentions lay.

They fought for each other. They protected each other, and those who couldn't do it themselves. They never denied help to each other, and always rallied together when one of their family was hurt. They never left one of their own behind, and sacrifices weren't things to make lightly.

The thought alone that one of his brothers or sisters was able to push away all of those emotions - all of the love that they felt for each other - and _murder_ someone they called their family not one minute before was almost inconceivable. Even more so was that that same person - if betrayal did occur - was able to conceal themselves behind false emotions so well after the deed was done that no one would suspect a thing of them.

It was horrifying, and it scared Thatch so much that he didn't want to believe it.

He knew, though, there was an extremely large possibility that that was what happened. In the case that the odds were right, then he needed to do something about it.

Logically speaking, the situation gave two or three different possibilities as to what had happened that day, none of which involved the enemy killing his brother. If all the enemies were hundreds of yards away being kept occupied by the frontline fighters of the divisions, then there was no way for them to be able to sneak up behind two Commanders and the more experienced members of both divisions, the majority of which were skilled enough with observation haki to have been forewarned of an enemy attack. Thatch knew that haki tended not to detect attacks from those considered nakama by the user, so it made even more sense that that was what happened.

One of the possible situations involved a crewmate throwing a knife at an enemy and completely missing their target. That was almost immediately dismissed, as much as Thatch would have preferred it over the alternatives. There were only about three people on the _Moby Dick_ who specialized in fighting techniques that used knives, and they were all experienced to the point that when they missed, it was by inches, not hundreds of yards. Besides, all three of them were in the First and Third divisions anyway - they weren't involved with, or anywhere near, the battle in the first place.

A third scenario was more likely, yet less believable. Occasionally, when one of the crew saw another struck down, or a person particularly close to them injured, they would go berserk. They would get so battle-crazed that they were no longer aware of who they were attacking. This was also ruled out fairly quickly. In a battle, whenever a person went berserk, it tended to cause a huge, loud commotion that never failed to attract the attention of at least a third of the man's allies. Since Thatch had been observing the fight as a whole, he and Tyde would have noticed immediately if this had occurred, especially so close to the Commanders themselves.

The only reason Thatch thought through these at first was to rule out any possible alternative to what he was dreading as the final - and apparently definite - option as to what had really occurred that day. He hated to even think it was possible, but by ruling out any other possibility, he forced himself to acknowledge it.

One of the people he had called brother or sister had purposefully killed Tyde.

Thatch pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He didn't smoke all that often, but heavens knew he needs one now. His nerves were going all over the place right now. There was a murderer disguised as his brother or sister, and they were on the _Moby Dick_ right now, socializing with the rest of his family. No one else realized it. Hell, no one else would even think for a second that that was the truth, but Thatch knew better now.

As much as he hated it, he was sure now that there was a traitor on the _Moby Dick_.

Thatch would not rest until he found the bastard and saw that he got the punishment he deserved.

He let out another long breath, watching as the smoke disappeared at the same time as the sun. There was a lot of work ahead of him, and it would be very difficult. The bastard hid himself pretty well up until now, and it was going to be a pain in the ass to flush him out of hiding. It would be even harder than Thatch originally thought, too, because he'd be doing this completely on his own.

No one would believe him if he told them what he knew. Hell, they might even think he went crazy, and actively prevent him from doing anything to find Tyde's murderer. Telling anyone else before he had solid, physical proof would just be a hindrance to his goal.

Still, though, he had a ton of suspects to look through. It would be difficult and unnecessary to interrogate the entire crew - there were over 2000 people in the Whitebeard family. The battle in which Tyde died only involved the first four divisions, as those are the ones stationed on the Moby Dick, and the Moby Dick was the only ship involved in the fight. Of the four divisions present, only the second and fourth were actually in the fight - the first was on fishing duty and the third was keeping the ship running. So, he had it narrowed down to just over 250 people. He could easily remember the which of the members of his division were sent directly to the other ship, so it was more like 170 people. 170 suspects of Tyde's murder. 170 possible traitors on the crew.

Thatch sure had his work cut out for him.

He stood up, flicking out the stub of his cigarette, and turned to take one more look at Tyde's memorial stone. It really was the perfect design for him, and the marble almost glowed in the night sky. He read the inscription on the stone - it was simple, just his name and how long he lived. Tyde wasn't really the type for sentiment anyway; he always thought that sharing sentiment for the dead was for pansies.

Still, though, Thatch couldn't bring himself to leave nothing there except a name and a date. It felt… too little for a man that had such a big personality.

Chuckling to himself, Thatch got out a piece of paper and something to write with - something that wouldn't fade anytime soon. Tyde would be yelling at him for having too many feelings if he were here to do that, but Thatch got the feeling that as they were now the late Second Division Commander wouldn't mind all that much.

He wrote down just a few lines, and left the paper on the ground next to the stone with a rock to keep it from blowing away in the seabreeze. When he stood back up fully, he felt a new determination swell within him.

Nothing would stop him in this quest. This wasn't just about getting revenge for his fallen brother, although that was a large part of it. No, this was about protecting the rest of his family. After all, if the bastard obviously had no qualms about killing family, then there was nothing stopping him from doing it again.

Thatch was on a mission now.

As he started walking away, he couldn't help but think about flies again - about how they contaminate everything they touch and spread disease and filth as if it were there life goal to make the world as rotten as possible. Flies were, for sure, a cook's worst nightmare.

There was a fly infestation on the _Moby Dick_ , and he'd be damned if he let any of his brothers get killed by the diseases that it spread.

* * *

 _To whom it may concern:_

 _This man was a leader_

 _A best friend_

 _And a brother._

 _May he live in freedom forever._

* * *

 **Sorry that it's so short this time, but it's a transition chapter. We're heading into the main plot now! And other characters will appear! Like Marco and Ace!**

 **Don't forget to leave a review - I love to hear from you guys!**

 **~Psych**

 **beta-read by breather**


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